The Huntress
by chemqueen
Summary: She has no name, and no past. Having rescued her from Marius' prison, the knights witness Cerelinde come into her heritage and perhaps a love for Tristan. But once she finds her idenity, can she keep both her heart and her name? DISCONTINUED
1. Cerelinde

Oooh . . . new story. Where shall it go . . . what shall it do? . . .

Read and find out!

So now . . .

Chapter One: Cerelinde

* * *

"_Little sister, little sister . . ."_

"_Come back to us, little sister . . ."_

_Behind her fluttering eyelids, Cerelinde watch two men reach out to her. Their skin glowed liquid gold, and their eyes were kind. Their names were within her grasp . . . why couldn't she remember?_

Her eyes cracked open, the light filtering in painfully.

_Am I dead?_ wondered Cerelinde as an angel scooped her from her putrid cell into his arms.

_Damn Marius_, was her second thought, and she filled her mind with images of staking the evil Roman leader with many small pointy objects. _Stabbity, stab, stab._

"Who are you?" asked the angel, who had begun to walk away from the prison cells and towards the light of the day, and the forest, which for some reason she was drawn to. The call of the trees inexplicably whispered to her soul.

"Guinevere calls me Cerelinde," she whispered, her tongue bruised. She had refused to scream, and bit her tongue enough times to draw blood. The monks were more bearers of pain than the soothing comfort their god promised. Her throat constricted around the words, and they came out breathy.

The angel smiled, and his face glowed. "I am Lancelot," he replied to her unspoken question, and she only had time to think, _I have never met an angel named Lancelot_ before the sun thundered down on her sensitive eyes, and she buried her head in her savior's chest.

"Another admirer?" inquired a rough voice, and Cerelinde realized that angels didn't have beating hearts, and she felt her face grow red with embarrassment. The last man she had done this too . . .

She couldn't remember.

As a matter of fact, the woman called Cerelinde couldn't remember much of anything. She remembered stumbling from the forest in a daze, and when she watched taunting Roman soldiers string up an old man – one she couldn't help classifying as _hers_ – a hot rage burned up her chest, and erupted as she launched herself at them, remembering too late that she lacked a sword or a dagger.

Cerelinde had managed to land a few well-placed kicks and punches before one had put his sword rather dramatically under her chin. She shot the man a look of sorrow and regret, but he had simply smiled thanks.

She also remembered the green dress she had worn. The bodice was fitted and velvety, and the taffeta skirt flared slightly. Small jet beads were scattered over the skirt and lined the seam between the skirt and bodice. The back laced in five silver circles of twining leaves which connected to close it.

She remembered being thrown at Marius' feet, and the lust and laughter in his eyes as he had ordered her dress, "Too fine for such a rotting peasant", to be removed from her person, and the rough hands of the guards as they had torn at the silver fastenings. Finally she had pushed them away and taken off the dress herself, her head held high.

Then they threw her in the rotting hell with even more rotted priests who mumbled incoherently as they sharped glittering tools of torture with which to prick her. Their eyes were full of madness and they had chuckled, reciting in high voices the words of their god.

"Join him, and let repentance heal your torn soul."

That night she met Guinevere, a petite blonde girl, who called herself a woad, and bestowed her with a name.

_Who are you?_

_I can't remember._

_What if I call you Cerelinde?_

_It's very pretty . . . what does it mean?_

_Whatever you make it into._

Guinevere had told her tales of the forest to frighten away the night terrors. She was so incredibly strong, and together they blocked the scary things, and protected the boy Lucan. Both of them took extra punishment to relieve him of some.

Suddenly remembering her friend, Cerelinde unburied her face, and craned her neck to look for the child ( how strange that she always thought of Guinevere as a child, even though the woman, at twenty, had at least a year on her).

Sensing her unrest (or perhaps the swiveling of her neck gave her away), Lancelot murmured, "She's over there, with Arthur."

Arthur? _Arthur, Roman, leader of the Sarmatian knights, son of a Roman and a Britain, carrier of Excalibur._

Where had that come from?

Cerelinde turned to where Lancelot had pointed his chin, and saw Guinevere greedily gulping water, and then choking as her stomach rejected the liquid as too much. The man, Arthur, stood and handed Lancelot the skin, who lowered her to the ground beside her friend, and gave her the water. Cerelinde drank slower, and felt an icy burn trail down into her stomach.

She turned to Guinevere, and with a few choice looks they had, by some inbred warrior instinct, positioned all escape routes and which of the knights behind them was the weakness. It confused Cerelinde, and led her to think that perhaps there was war in her past.

Moments, barely seconds later Marius appeared, furious, his beady black eyes blazing with self-righteous anger. "Stop what you are doing!" he exploded. He whirled on Guinevere and Cerelinde, who both glared defiantly back at him. When she was certain no one was looking, Cerelinde childishly stuck out her tongue and her middle finger.

"What is this madness?" demanded Arthur, their rescuer, and he stepped between the girls and the furious Roman.

"She is a pagan," shrieked Marius, pointing an accusing finger at Guinevere. "And SHE," he continued, whirling around to face Cerelinde, "SHE is a creature of darkness. A child deformed by God so her tongue will not speak for Satan! She will not speak, not to beg forgiveness!" He finished his tirade and turned to the knights for support. And received none.

A young knight (_Galahad_, her mind told her) yelled, "We are pagans!" and Arthur stepped forward. But the most surprising reaction of all was Cerelinde, who whispered,

"I can speak, Marius. But if I do not scream for your monks, it is none of your concern." The Roman lord looked shocked, and was speechless for a moment. Then, seeing no support in the knights surrounding Guinevere and Cerelinde in a half-circle, turned his anger inward.

"And you!" he yelled at the cowering woman at his side, who was dressed in a crimson cloak, "You helped them!" His slap echoed in the silent field, and both Arthur and Cerelinde lunged forward. Arthur made it first, mostly because Cerelinde's weak body was too tired to support an angry launch at the bastard. She made it half way before collapsing.

Lancelot put a hand on her shoulder and firmly shoved her backwards, but she remained rigid and watched Arthur threaten Marius at the tip of his sword. As fear blanched the Roman's eyes into bleak pools of blue, Cerelinde and Guinevere shared a savage grin of joy. Revenge blossomed in their hearts. Guinevere's fingers twitched as if whirling a dagger.

"Wall them back up," commanded Arthur, and Cerelinde turned quickly. She had missed something.

"Arthur . . ." said a voice behind her, and Cerelinde turned to get a look at the voice which sounded vaguely familiar. A man sat on a lithe horse behind her, his eyes on his leader, a dagger caught in his hands. His mangy brown hair was interspersed with braids. As Arthur snapped something behind her, his eyes drifted over to her. She frowned, lines forming between her brows.

He seemed so familiar . . .

But apparently he didn't feel the same, because he turned and wheeled his horse away as Lancelot once again picked her up, and carried her to a wooden wagon that was already occupied by an unconscious Guinevere, and the little boy Lucan.

Lancelot dumped her unceremoniously in the wagon, and disappeared in a swirl of cloak, obviously furious about something that Cerelinde had a nagging feeling was about her and the village people. They were all rushing about, packing their few belongings and loading wagons. One half of Cerelinde's mind whispered, "They'll drag us down," but another, somewhat larger, part replied, "You cannot let your people die." Her people? Since when had they become her people?

Before Fulcina and her large helper (_Dagonet_) could notice that they had another patient, Cerelinde peered out of the wagon opening, as the village people scrambled to gather their lives in few minutes. The knights were interspersed with them, eyes alternating between muttering at the sky and glaring at their commander. Behind them stretched . . .

The forest.

Dark trees were coated in a layer of crystalline snow that glittered. The sun was never very high in this land, but evening was closing fast, and strangely the moon was missing. As she watched the forest, Cerelinde caught a glimpse of a moving creature.

That strange knight. He was watching the wagon, and perhaps her. _Not a very efficient scout if he's looking the wrong way_, thought Cerelinde, and then realized that she didn't have a way of knowing that he was the scout.

So she must know him. Then again, she knew the names of all of the knights, and they didn't seem as familiar as the dark scout, who finally noticed her gaze, and turned away, slipping like liquid into the woods. _I could do that . . ._

Cerelinde was jerked from her mental meanderings as the wagon lurched forward, and Fulcina finally took note of her. The small woman stalked forward with a formidable look in her eyes.

"What do you think you're doing, sitting out in the cold?" she scolded, and dragged Cerelinde away from the forest's strange call, and back into the covered area where Guinevere slumbered. Fulcina looked at Cerelinde's fingers critically, and then turned to her hulking helper, who had vanished.

"I'll have to get one of the men to set these," she muttered, motioning to Cerelinde's right hand, where her ring finger and thumb were broken. Strangely, her left hand was unbroken, and other than mal-nutrition, Cerelinde didn't have much to show for her stay in Marius' cells.

Fulcina sat back on her heels, and for a moment watched her strange patient, who simply looked back at her with strange eyes that seemed to be liquid silver now, as opposed to the usual deep green. As she watched, the eyes shifted like some sort of animal, and a circular ring rose through her eyes, across the iris, then vanished.

"When I brought you bread two days ago you had two fingers on your left hand broken," said Fulcina, and Cerelinde blinked at her. Her fair skin was slightly pink at the cheeks, but she refused to answer. Cerelinde couldn't exactly tell her that she had awakened the day before to healed fingers.

Fulcina sighed. "Fine. Don't answer." She turned away, and bustled with a few sleeping herbs in the brazier that tipped with each lurch of the cart. Cerelinde fell into a deep sleep.

* * *

She awoke hours later, and feinted rest until Fulcina settled into sleep, then she threw off her furs and crept silently to the head of the wagon. Everyone had settled into separate campfires, and Cerelinde had already dropped her bare feet to the frozen ground before she realized that she was only wearing a thin shift.

When she had arrived before Marius, he had stripped her of her forest green gown that she had worn. It was a comforting thing, and she wished to have it. Quietly, she slipped her hand inside the wagon, and grabbed one of furs, and wrapped it around her shoulders.

Then she moved towards the nearest campfire, which housed the knights. Arthur was absent, but the strange scout and Lancelot were there, trading rowdy jokes. They all fell into silence as she stumbled closer.

"Hello," she said a little awkwardly, and felt her face heat as the men all scrutinized her form beneath the lumpy fur cape she had wrapped herself in.

Obviously determining her safe, a particularly bawdy large knight (_Bors_, whispered her mind) moved aside and let her move into their ranks. The silence was broken as Lancelot said: "Looking to ditch Vanora, eh? How d'you think she'll respond to that?" and there was hearty laughs all around that broke the uncomfortable silence Cerelinde had brought when she emerged from the mist.

Vanora? _Bors' lover. Born his eleven children, some of them Lancelot's._

By now Cerelinde was getting used to the buzzing thoughts in her mind. She ignored them.

The strange, staring scout was to her left, leaning against a tree trunk as if it belonged to him. To her right was the stout Bors. Silently, the scout handed her a leg of meat, and she dug in hungrily. Eventually she realized they were all staring at her.

"I'm Cerelinde," she offered with a smile, and the men introduced themselves hastily in a circle. Her mind prompted the name before the knight spoke it, and it produced an eerie echoing effect in her head. It ended with the strange scout.

"That's Tristan," said Bors, obviously not expecting his friend to fill it in himself. "Quiet sort." Cerelinde offered him a hesitant smile, and it wasn't returned. The smile dropped and she placed the stripped bone next to her in the dirt.

"So where are you from?" asked the young one, Galahad. Cerelinde looked into the fire.

"I don't know," she replied, and they all guffawed. "No," she reassured them, "It's true. The first thing I remember is coming out of the forest to see Marius' minions stringing up that poor village elder. I tried to intervene, and forgot in the process that I didn't have a weapon on me."

Gawain snorted at that. "Not a good thing to forget," he said, and Cerelinde grinned.

"It's not very good to forget who you are either," and there was laughter all around. She settled into the background as the men began to swap tales of bravo, the group occasionally correcting the storyteller.

"And that time with the raid? And Gawain launched that axe o' his, and couldn't find it?"

"You think that was the worst? It has nothing on the time we went north of the wall and found those wandering Saxons, and they turned out to be women in disguise."

"That wasn't brave, you idiot, that was just stupidity."

"No, that just proves that Saxons don't have men. That's why they're so easy to beat."

"They just spawn then?"

"'Spose so."

"You idiot."

Their stories all lead to an argument, but their eyes were fastened to Cerelinde's slight figure, wavering with fatigue between the two tall knights on either side of her. Eventually her head nodded off to the left and collapsed against the same tree trunk as Tristan. The stories faltered for a moment before continuing with gusto.

But they all faded to snores in time, and Tristan was left on first watch, the mysterious girl's head lying on his shoulder. His hawk, who despised all living creatures but himself, had perched on her shoulder, head nestled under her wing.

Strange. Very strange.

* * *

MY NEW STORY! AI!

REJOICE IN HAPPINESS! PLEASE!

Okay, PLEASE review because I NEED REVIEWS! The first few weeks of school have been TERROR UPON TERROR, and I NEED SUPPORT!

Please!


	2. Memories

OH MY GOD! Thank's SO MUCH for all the reviews.

**Author's Note:** Does anyone know the name of Tristan's horse? I used Morrigan, but I'd appreciate knowing if there's one that I'm missing.

SOOOO . . . . without further ado ('cause I know how much everyone hates ado) . . . my new chapter.

Chapter Two: Memories

* * *

Cerelinde awoke the next morning with a pounding headache. She also woke up placed firmly in her furs in the wagon, nestled between Guinevere and Lucan. The boy had burrowed into his blankets against her back, so she had obviously been there for some time. 

Fulcina was bustling around the jolting wagon. She was humming something softly under her breath, and for perhaps the first time in a long time, she seemed happy. Cerelinde wasn't incredibly surprised. The woman had been locked up by her sadistic husband for as long as twenty years.

And a certain soft-spoken knight most likely contributed to herjoyous mood as well.

The aforementioned Dagonet was sitting on the edge of the wooden wagon, his legs dangling, occasionally brushing the frozen ground in the tip of his boot. He was watching the three patients with an air of watchful laziness.

Cerelinde rose carefully, making sure to move the two woads together, and slipped past theRoman womanto sit next to the knight. The sat in silence for a while, and Cerelinde's feet swung slow circles in the air. She was short compared to her companion.

"Do you really not remember who you are?" asked Dag quietly. Cerelinde looked up, and gooseflesh rose up her bare arms. She wasn't cold – more startled. In fact, Dag noted, she seemed impervious to the harsh winds that were whistling though the wagon. Behind him he heard rustling as Guinevere and Lucan buried deeper into the covers, searching for warmth.

"No," said Cerelinde softly. She looked up, and her eyes caught Dag's notice. Cerelinde wasn't particularly beautiful, not like Guinevere (or Fulcina) seemed to be. She was more bewitching; her curling black hair and strange liquid eyes enticed intrigue rather than lust.

Dag nodded, and the two continued their silent companionship. Eventually, without warning, Dag jumped off the still moving vehicle and wandered over to some of the knights. Fulcina appeared behind Cerelinde, clutching furs to her chest. She shivered at the open air.

"Here," she said, slinging them over her shoulders, "you shouldn't be out in the cold like this, in your condition." Cerelinde shrugged nonchalantly, and dutifully pulled the furs around her shoulders and arms. Fulcina fussed over placing one in her lap to cover the flimsy fabric of her shift, before moving off to check on her other charges.

She hadn't noticed that the right hand which secured the furs was whole and scarless. Sometime over the night, Cerelinde's fingers had set and healed themselves. Fulcina didn't know, and Cerelinde wasn't about to bring it up herself.

For a while, perhaps an hour or so, Cerelinde stared at the trees whistling by. In her mind, she ran through the few memories she still possessed.

_Six men. A horse. Thirteen hounds. The bow._

They were all fragments, but they were all she had.

In her dreams in Marius' prison, Cerelinde had been approached by six different men. They were each glowed, and seemed to have rivers of gold flowing through their veins instead of blood. They called her little sister and little owl.

But she couldn't remember having brothers.

Then there was a proud black stallion, with a silver mane and eyes like sapphires. It had snorted a pale fog, and it's hooves echoed like they were made of sterling. Once it had raised it's upper body, hooves striking at air, mane and tail fluttering as if a wind whistled through them. It looked like sculpture come to life.

There were hounds too. Thirteen of them, she counted once. They too were black, with silver eyes and each stood to her waist, the size of a small pony. She hadn't felt scared around them; if anything, she had felt more secure, safer with these mysterious dogs guarding her sleep.

And then there was the bow. It had appeared many different times, sitting at the edge of her cell where the moonlight struck. It had shifted colors, and it was always strung with a blue feather-tipped arrow.

_Who am I_? she asked herself for the thousandth time. What kind of woman was she? She was not woad, but knew herself to be British. She was tied to this island as only someone of it's people could be.

And there were the facts . . . little things, like names, that popped into her head when she would look at someone. They almost drove her crazy, but she knew how to block them off, as if she'd had years of practice.

"Who am I?" she whispered, hoping in a subconscious level that maybe the wind would answer. It didn't.

"Well, if you're talking to yourself, you're probably crazy," said Tristan dryly, his horse moving soundlessly past her.

"Perish the thought," replied Cerelinde, smiling. He seemed discomforted by the smile, and moved away before she react. As he melted back into the forest, Cerelinde watched him silently. The feeling of familiarity had resurfaced, and as she lunged for the reason, it swam away.

"Bugger," she muttered.

Dag appeared soon after, moving to help Fulcina with Lucan. Cerelinde turned to Guinevere, but she seemed to be still asleep.

Arthur was next, and he stooped next to Cerelinde, looking her in the eye as one would to calm a frightened animal.

"How are your fingers?" he asked quietly.

"Fine," replied Cerelinde, hugging the appendages closer to her body. Arthur saw it as defensive, but she was really trying to keep them out of sight of Fulcina.

He reached forward. "I need to reset them or they won't heal properly." Cerelinde took out her hands and waggled her fingers at him

"All fine. No broken bones." Arthur caught her waving hands and carefully inspected her joints and knuckles. He finally let go and looked at her with a strange look.

"You know Lancelot?" he asked, and she nodded. "He told me that you had two broken fingers." Cerelinde froze for a moment (_I hope some of Vanora's bastards are his because he's going to lose his ability to make them soon_) but then smiled blindingly.

"Fancy that," she said. "Hmm . . . I have no idea why he would think that." They stared at each other for a while. Arthur broke first, and sweeping his cloak out of his way, went to attend Guinevere.

"Arthur," murmured Dag, looking up. They were probably whispering, but Cerelinde could hear them as if they shouted.

Arthur stopped for a moment and looked at Lucan. "How is he?"

"He burns. Brave boy."

Cerelinde continued to face forward, but strained her ears towards the commotion between Arthur and Guinevere. There was a slithering sound of cloth sliding against cloth, and then Arthur's voice.

"If I don't do this, there's a chance you might never use them again." Guinevere must have given her consent, because seconds later sickening cracking noises arose from the back of wagon. Guinevere bit back the pain at first, then began small screams.

There was silence, and then some more cloth being grabbed. "He tortured us. With machines. He made us tell his things that we didn't know in the first place. We tried to protect Lucan." A pause. "And then, I heard your voice in the dark. I'm Guinevere. You're Arthur, from the knights of the great wall."

"I am."

"Famous Briton who kills his own people," whispered Guinevere. There was a small thump as she collapsed against something, Cerelinde's bet was going for Arthur's chest. Small dry sobs rose.

Cerelinde's mind screamed victory, but she didn't know why.

It was a simple interaction, between a victim and her savior. So why did her heart beat happily? Why was she so excited?

"Ye brothers," she muttered weakly.

* * *

Marius' villa was aflame. The lights washed over the bare stone. Empty huts whirled smoke above like bonfires. No bodies lay spitted on the ground. Not yet, anyway.

The Saxon leader, Cerdic, was furious.

He paced across the burning land and though his walk was nonchalant and his gait slow, his eyes burned a black fire harder and more dangerous than the one he had begun. Cerdic liked killing things. He didn't like losing his prey.

"I found tracks coming from the south, but none going back. Horsemen, traveling light and fast. Could be Roman cavalry. Could be knights." The spy's voice was weak with fear and exhaustion. He knew Cerdic could, and would, turn on him at a moment's notice. He had no desire to join the flaming huts and villa.

His name was Gregory. He was British scout who had turned on his people. Gregory knew that the Romans were pulling out, and that the Saxons were more likely to win the coming war. He had never been a gambling man, so he stuck to winning teams.

"They know we're after them," murmured Cerdic, almost to himself. His men wisely stayed silent, but Gregory stumbled on with his information.

"They'll head east now. Through the mountains." Cerdic turned his hawk-like eye upon the spy.

"Hmmm . . ." he said, and as his hand started towards his sword, two blonde Saxon soldiers dragged forward the monks.

"God's holy work! They defiled- I am a servant of God!" shouted the monk, his eyes darting around, looking for escape between the soldiers.

A soldier moved towards his leader, his voice an octave lower in reverence. "He says they walled him up in a building and took the family. Someone who goes by the name of Artulius."

"It's him. It's Arthur," murmured the scout. Cynric, Cerdic's son, was the recipient of his father's gaze.

"Take your men east. Hunt them down. I'll take the main army to the Wall. Bring the family there."

Gregory turned nervously towards the mad monks, who were shouting and waving their arms. "And the monks?"

Cynric smiled an eerie replica of his father's. The strange braided beard wobbled. "Put them back where you found them." The monks began to struggle.

"I am a servant of God! I am a _servant of God!_ I am-" he was cut off. Cerdic's men turned to their leader. He sighed at the loss.

"Burn it all."

Gregory made to go, but Cerdic was there in seconds, his eyes glittering.

"Leaving?" he asked quietly. Gregory shook his head as quickly as he could in the headlock. He tried to reply, but only gurgling noises rose from his throat. "Yes?" said Cerdic, loosening slightly.

"No, no," gasped Gregory, and was released.

"Good."

* * *

Tristan watched from the woods warily. His eyes were where they shouldn't be – namely on the hospice wagon. The woads and the strange women were inside. He had seen knights filter in and out of it the entire trip – first Dag, who had taken a liking to the Roman's wife, and then Arthur. 

Tristan had noticed how Arthur and Lancelot watched the woad woman, Guinevere, and filed it away for future reference.

Cerelinde sat in the front of the wagon, her eyes glazed and out of focus.

They brought back unpleasant memories of his mother. When he was five she had succumbed to the wasting fever. For a month she had headaches and stomach cramps, and then she had been confined to her bed by the old healing woman. For the last week of her life she writhed on her bed, skin flushed with fever, eyes wild, muttering crazy talk.

She had grabbed Tristan the day before she died, her bony hand clutching his upper arm with strange strength. "They will come for you. Don't resist. She'll be there at the end. The end of the world." She'd cackled madly and rolled away. Her eyes had swirled into the back of her head, and he had run for the healer.

The next morning, when he came back from his play with the other children, she was dead.

Seven years later, they had come. He hadn't resisted. But the girl at the end hadn't appeared. Part of his mind whispered that maybe she had been talking about Cerelinde. But the rational part – the part that had kept him alive and away from madness, told him to shut up and do his job.

A job he currently wasn't doing very well. If it weren't for his horse, he'd probably be smashed on a tree somewhere, Tristan-marmalade. Morrigan, however, did _her _job of keeping her rider alive.

Tristan distractedly patted Morrigan on the neck, and looked back to Cerelinde.

Their interaction had been brief, for the most part because Tristan had been unnerved by her smile. It was attractive, but predatory. When she smiled, Cerelinde flashed teeth and her eyes gleamed like someone on the hunt.

_Damn it_, he thought to himself, and whirled his horse into the woods. He looked back one final time, however, and Cerelinde's strange eyes were on his back. She didn't smile, but her expression changed for a moment.

Then he turned away, and dodged into the forest.

_Who is she?_

* * *

_Why, why can't I remember? _

* * *

Hmmm . . . next chapter: the eagerly awaited scene in which SOMETHING ACTUALLY HAPPENS! Oh my god! suspenseful music plays. 

So review if you want to see my chappie!


	3. Sotrarr'lun

I'm just on a roll! Who's the update goddess?

Hehehehehehehehehe.

Chapter Three: Sotrarr'lun

* * *

That night Fulcina convinced Dag and Bors to drag out the tin bathtub and fill it with hot water. They grumbled and muttered, but did as the Roman woman asked. Lucan had the first bath, and Guinevere and Cerelinde waited for him to finish.

"You like Arthur, don't you?" asked Cerelinde quietly, and Guinevere turned several shades of magenta, and spluttered protestations.

"Why, why on the Goddess's green earth would, would you think that I like Arthur?" she said. Cerelinde smiled so only the pointed tips of her incisors showed.

"I asked if you like him. You're acting like I asked if two were in love. You have a dirty mind, Guinevere," she shook her head in mock consternation. Guinevere turned away to face the forest, and suddenly inspiration lit up her face.

"Well, you and Tristan seem to be getting along wonderfully," she laughed.

"You got that from the what, seven, words we've exchanged?" Cerelinde queried. Guinevere raised a single dirty, but nevertheless elegant, eyebrow.

"The two of you seemed pretty cosy by the fire the other night." As her friend's pale skin flamed, she continued. "You see, he had to carry you in, and of course I watched the show. He's incredibly nimble. I doubt I would have seen him if I wasn't already awake. You have fun?" Cerelinde snorted and pushed Guinevere off the lip of the wagon into the snow.

* * *

When Fulcina dumped Lucan into the care of Dag, she called in Guinevere. When her friend disappeared between the curtains (well, she didn't really disappear, because the so-called curtains were nothing more than gauzy scraps of air nailed to the back of the wagon), Cerelinde had slipped away to the knights' campfire to snag some dinner.

She passed Lancelot, who was on rounds. He stopped by the wagon, and Cerelinde watched from the shelter of the trees as his eyes widened at the sight of Guinevere's bare back. There was something there, hiding, that Cerelinde didn't like.

_This will be troublesome_, she thought to herself, and promptly forgot why.

She waited for Lancelot to wander off before taking a circuitous route to the fire. All the knights had assembled, and Lucan was curled up by Dag in his protector's jacket. Cerelinde slid into the empty space between Tristan and Bors, and as the scout handed her a small haunch of something that looked to be rabbit, she reddened at Guinevere's jab.

Trying to avoid notice, she buried herself in the small dinner.

When the white bone was stripped clean, she stared into the fire and half-heartedly listened to the boisterous talk of the Sarmatians.

She remembered another conversation she had heard that day, earlier in the morning. She and Guinevere had been wrapped in stifling furs, sitting in the open face of the wagon, letting the air bite the dirt off her face. Then Arthur had ridden up, and the conversation quickly changed to suit him.

"_My father told me great tales of you."_

"_Really? What did you hear?"_

"_Fairy tales. The kind you hear of people so brave, so selfless that they can't be real. Arthur and his knights. A leader both Britain and Roman. And yet you chose your allegiance to Rome. To those that take what does not belong to them. That same Rome that took your men from their homeland._"

"_Listen, Lady, do not pretend to know anything about me or my knights."_

"_How many Britons have you killed?"_

"_As many as tried to kill me. It's the natural state of any man to want to live."_

"_Animals live. It's the natural state of any man to want to live free, in their own country.  
I belong to this land. Where do you belong, Arthur?_"

_Cerelinde held her breath, waiting for an answer that for some reason held great interest for her._

"_How is you hand?"_

"_I'll live, I promise you. Is there nothing about my land that appeals to your heart? Your own father married a Briton, so there must have been something to his liking."_

_The knight didn't reply. Unable to face the deep eyes, he guided the horse towards Tristan, who had melted out of the trees like liquid velvet._

"_He avoids the question, Cerelinde. But I think I already know his answer." There was a lengthy pause as the wagon was stopped, and all unpacked for the night._

"_Wait. Tonight, I meet my father in the clearing. Will you come?"_

"_Yes."_

"Cerelinde?" The woman in question looked up to see a very beautiful Guinevere, glowing in a blue dress that flattered her slim figure. Dirty, she had been beautiful, but clean Guinevere radiated sunlight.

"Yes?" Cerelinde asked, looking down.

"You can use the bath now." Cerelinde nodded, vacated her seat, and returned to Fulcina. The water had turned lukewarm, but she didn't want to wait for it to be refilled. The dirty shift shed, she slid into the large tub, and dunked her head under the water.

When she rose up, shedding water like a sea creature, dirt floated in large, muddy chunks on the top of the water. She fished most of them out, and with Fulcina's help began to scrub away the grim that had accumulated during her stay with Marius.

She scrubbed until her fingertips tingled, and as Fulcina rubbed soap into her scalp, she closed her eyes, and let the insistent fingers tug through the knots in her black hair, and remembered someone else's fingers digging and gently pulling apart the tangles in her curly hair. It had always been untamable.

But when she metaphysically reached for the memory it vanished. Cerelinde dug frantically for it again, but it was as if a trap door had closed beneath her feet. Deep in the cellar of her mind, she knew that this person, and all of her other memories, hid.

Suddenly Fulcina's fingers stopped, and then the flat of her hand thrust Cerelinde's head under the water.

_Come now, little one, it's just a bath._

_Just a bath._

_What, are you afraid of a little water?_

_Never._

_Then get in._

_Darkness, emptiness, heavy and pushed down on her body. Open yourself and let go._

_No._

_NO._

Cerelinde thrashed for a moment, her hands seeking purchase, and then she grabbed the sides of the tin and heaved her body upward, along with most of the contents of the tub.

"AAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHH!"

Fulcina blinked behind her, eyes wide, dress matted with dirty water. The pale green dress that had been the only thing she could find to fit Cerelinde's unique frame was drenched as well. As she watched, the shift floated out of the wagon on a tiny torrent of bath water. It fell over the edge into the snow.

"Oh! Fulcina! I'm so sorry!" Three knights skidded around the edge of the wagon, swords drawn. They took in the sight of Cerelinde, her bare back turned to them, and a soaking Fulcina. The shift finally settled at their feet.

"'Tis alright," said Fulcina, smiling. "I've been thinking this dress needed to be cleaned anyway." The knights laughed and sheathed their swords.

Gawain was the first to recover. "Been in any boating accidents, Cerelinde?" he asked, and picked up the shift. It had begun to freeze, and was stiff.

"Don't joke," shivered Cerelinde. Her eyes, only visible because she was looking over her shoulder, were wide and deep green. Suddenly the knights realized that she was naked sitting in a tub half-full of water, and they backed up.

"Thank you for your gallant efforts in fighting off the sea monster," said Cerelinde, trying to lighten the tension hanging around them, but her voice came out hoarse from the scream, and it didn't help.

They awkwardly left, leaving Cerelinde, clean but clothes-less, and Fulcina. The Roman started to stand, but Cerelinde was struck by inspiration. "Don't," she said, and stood. Ignoring the gawking of Fulcina, she grabbed the nearest blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders.

She stopped before getting out, however, because the bottom gaped open in an – uncomfortable – place. So she peeled it off, and wrapped it around her chest, looping under her arms. It dropped a bit in the back, revealed to the small of her back, but Cerelinde was immune to cold. She stepped out, and stormed past the knights' campfire in the direction of Marius' tent.

The Sarmatians, who had been in the middle of a very funny story about Galahad, a whore and a rabbit, all stopped talking at the sight of an all-but naked woman stomping past them. In silent agreement born of years fighting together, they all stood and followed her.

"Marius!" she yelled, and yanked on part of the tent as an impromptu knock.

The guards appeared, and stood stonily under her glare. "Where's your leader?" she snapped, and they laughed. Thus they were off-guard when she punched the first one. He fell like he had been slapped with a brick.

"Where's Marius?" she demanded again, and when the guard refused to get out of her way, she hit him to. Only in somewhere slightly more valuable to his family's continued existence.

"Marius!" she bellowed again, and the Roman appeared, a snarl on his face. Before he could snap at her, she poked him in the chest. "What'd you do with my dress?"

Gawain had to hold down a laugh.

"Your dress?" asked Marius, confused, and then with remembrance, curled his lips in a grim replica of a smile. "Oh, I have it somewhere. You can have it back. For a price." His leer told her exactly what his price was, and she tensed her back, ready to lunge at him, but Tristan caught her before she killed him. She was much shorter than him, and he looping his arms around her waist and heaved her off the ground with little effort.

"Not a good idea," he whispered into her ear. She snarled at him, and waggled her hands in the general direction of Marius.

"Give the lady her dress," advised Bors, hand straying to the large sword strapped to his side. "As you can see, she's taken. I wouldn't get on the bad side o' him." The small grunt from Cerelinde made it seem as if she'd swallowed her tongue.

Grumbling, Marius stalked inside his tent, and returned a few moments later with his arms full of green fabric. Smirking, he dumped it in the snow.

By then, Tristan had released Cerelinde, and she picked up the gown, shaking it with one hand to rid it of any snow.

"Thank you, gentlemen," she said, and stalked between them back to her wagon. They all watched her pale back disappear into the darkness, then returned to their fire and food.

Tristan waited longer than the rest, before going to Lancelot to relieve him of watch.

* * *

Cerelinde had slid on the dress, and laced up the back with some guesswork on her part. It was really a dress meant to be put on with help from a small army of ladies-in-waiting, but Cerelinde had checked her belongings, and she didn't have any.

Guinevere appeared as Cerelinde was braiding her hair, and her impatience was obvious by her posture and the clenching of her fists. Finally Cerelinde gave up on taming her hair and dropped the ribbon dejectedly.

They passed through the sleeping knights like wraiths. Guinevere glowed, as if the sunlight flowed, barely contained, under her skin. Her dress whispered around her feet as she stepped carefully around the slumbering warriors.

Cerelinde, however, flowed like silver. The mysterious green dress made no noise over the leaves, nor did her bare feet. The untamable black mass of hair paired with her green eyes and pale skin made her look ethereal in the darkness. Like the moon.

Guinevere's feet were not as silent and something crinkled (or maybe something crackled; he wasn't sure), and Arthur awoke. His eyes latched onto the pale figures sliding between the trees and without a moments hesitation followed them.

Lancelot was still awake. Though Tristan had freed him from his watch hours before, Lancelot found himself unable to sleep. There was a tingling feeling the back of his neck and through his chest that had something to do with Guinevere.

As he sat, watching his commander, and competition, disappear into the woods, he fingered the pendant from his sister. Such a long time ago . . .

* * *

Tristan returned from the watch, and made to awaken Bors. "Don't," whispered Lancelot. "I'll take it." The scout's eyes opened a little wider almost imperceptibly, but he nodded, and made to return to his pallet.

But once Lancelot had gone off, he backtracked, and followed the footsteps out of the campsite into the woods.

* * *

Arthur caught up to them quickly. Guinevere paused in a new clearing. She turned back, and as Arthur came closer, another man, leading a large shadow, appeared. Arthur stepped back, and Excalibur rang like a bell as it exited the scabbard.

"You betrayed me!" he exclaimed wildly, taking Cerelinde and Guinevere in on his accusation.

Guinevere stepped forward, arm outstretched in peace. "He means you no harm."

The man floated elegantly into their sights, for all of his scraggly looks. His body shimmered with silver light, surrounding his body like an aura. Confidence, as well as wisdom, oozed out to cover the clearing. Both Cerelinde and Guinevere felt instinctively that this was between the two men.

Merlin (for whom else could possess such magic?) began. "Peace between us this night, Arthur Castus." He walked down the incline to meet Arthur. "Soon Rome will leave. The Saxons have come. The world we have known and fought for is ended. Now, we must make a new world."

Arthur shook his head violently. "Your world, Merlin. Not mine. I shall be in Rome." He muttered something that sounded suspiciously like, "Away from your daughter as well."

"Then the Saxons will come to Rome," murmured Merlin.

"My knights trust me not to betray them to their enemy." Merlin's body shook at the accusation.

"Rome was my enemy. Not Arthur. We have no fight between us." But Arthur refused to listen. He backed away, eyes rolling like a horse in battle.

"You tell that to the knights you killed before my eyes! Whose bones are buried in this earth!" To accentuate his point, he gestured to the frozen ground. But Merlin hardened, and with a voice echoing of the pain of loss replied:

"We have all lost brothers."

"**You know nothing of the loss I speak!** Shall I help you remember? An attack on a village. The screams of an innocent woman." Thunder rolled above them in the heavens, and Cerelinde felt herself watching through Arthur's eyes.

"_Mother!" Nothing I can do, nothing I can do._

"_Artorius!_" _Mother! Lightning crackled as madly as the fire whose flames licked above the dark-haired woman._

"_Mother! Mother!"_

"I ran to the burial mound of my father to free her. To kill you." Excalibur's tip was pointed at Merlin's heart. Cerelinde was wrenched out of the present, and back into the past.

"_Father! Please let loose your sword!" The sword was stuck deep in the stone. The village boys had played games, thrusting daggers into the veins of rocks, and then pulling them out. But this was a sword, not a small dagger. It was large, heavy, and was beginning to meld with the rock._

_Father! Desperate now. But with an arc, the sword was free, heavy in my grasp, burning as if it belonged there._

_Mother! Gone. The barn had collapsed, and with a suddenly rolling ball of heat, the ground appeared almost friendly._

"I feel the heat of that fire on my face even now." Cerelinde's consciousness rushed back into her body with a snap, and her head lolled on her shoulders before she could see through her own eyes again.

Merlin's voice was laced with sorrow. "I did not wish her dead. She was of our blood. As are you."

Arthur let Excalibur fall, and the strain in his arms betrayed his weariness.

"My men are strong but have need of a true leader," Merlin coaxed. "They believe you can do anything. To defeat the Saxons, we need a master of war. Why do you think I spared you in the forest?" Merlin walked behind Guinevere, and put his hands on her shoulders. As Arthur turned to leave, he muttered, almost as if Arthur wasn't meant to hear, "That sword you carry is made of iron from this earth, forged in the fires of Britain. It was love of your mother that freed the sword, not hatred of me. _Love_, Arthur."

And then he was gone.

Guinevere followed a moment later, but as Cerelinde turned, Merlin caught her arm. He had strength, even though he looked half-starved.

"I have your things, milady," he said, and the shadow stepped out, revealing itself to be a horse. The horse that had visited her in Marius' prison. She neighed softly, and shuffled forward. The sapphire eyes were soft with love, and Cerelinde ran a hand through the silver mane.

"How good to see you again, my friend. I've missed you, Faraday." As she threaded her fingers through the silky mane, Cerelinde ran her other finger over the bare back, and without looking she knew where the bow was.

_The Sotrarr'lun._

Tied with a green ribbon, the large bow and it's quiver lay dormant against Faraday's neck. In her mind, Cerelinde knew that those arrows flew true every time, and they were fleck with the feathers of a man, not of a bird.

She turned to thank Merlin, but he was gone.

* * *

OOOOOOHHHHH!

Look — what's the bow and horse for? How will the knights react to Cerelinde's new thingy-ma-jiggy?

And just what exactly will I come up with when Cerelinde, a bow, and Tristan are all stuck together?

Sotrarr'lun is rudimentary italian for moonstealer ('cause I didn't have a latin or gaelic dictionary handy). Sotrarre is to steal, and lun is short for luna, which is moon. So technically, it's The 'to steal moon', but that just doesn't have a ring to it.

Review so I'll update and you can find out!


	4. The Land, Wind and Senses

Disclaimer: I own Cerelinde. GO ME.

Author's Note: Okay. So I'm not dead. Nor is this story on a hiatus of any kind. I'm just a really TERRIBLE, EVIL authoress.

SO. SORRY.

I really am. It's just that with all of this sinus infection, my head has been feeling like it's a sheet of plywood being slowly bent. One day, BAM, brain fluid everywhere.

Yeah.

That was disgusting.

Anyway, have fun with chapter four.

Chapter Four: The Land, Wind and Senses

* * *

"It has been a while, old friend," said Cerelinde, tilting her head as she unwound the ribbon that held her bow to Faraday. "Many moons have passed since we last rode together." The ribbon loosened, and Cerelinde, in a motion that was familiar, tied it into her hair so the foremost strands were out of the way.

The bow slid into her hand and the worn bone rested solidly in her hand. She found the strings wrapped around the base, and she wound the bow with easy hands. Familiarity, all of it; the quiver resting against her back, the bow in her hands, Faraday at her side – yet there was something missing.

_What is it?_

But there was no time for this; Cerelinde sensed that in her very bones. She reached over her shoulder and pulled one of the arrows silently from the quiver. She sighted, barely breathing, and released the blue feathered arrow.

It made little noise as it brushed through growth and trees, and only rang as it stuck deeply within the tree a hundred yards away. "Hello, Tristan."

"You are a good shot."

The scout made his way silently towards her. In a few seconds, he stood in the shadows underneath the clearing. The moonlight fell on Cerelinde and her midnight-black horse. Her hair was revealed to have blue and purple highlights, her eyes strains of silver. It seemed that her pale skin was whiter than new snow.

They stood in silence for a while, watching each other. The horse, Tristan did not know its name, made no noise, as other horses did. It too seemed to be watching him, and appraising.

"Her name is Faraday," said Cerelinde, her voice loud and clear. "It seems that I asked Merlin to keep her for me while I was Marius' captive."

"Can you remember?" asked Tristan with a small quirk of an eyebrow. He made mental note of her arrows and their strange feathers, her bow with its bone handle and the horse's mysterious eyes and mane.

"Not yet," she replied. "But I will."

"You seem so confident."

"Would I being afraid soothe your ruffled feathers?" There was a hint of mirth in the corner of her eyes that he hadn't noticed before now. Her lips curled a little at the corners; an elfin smile.

"Are you so sure that my feathers are ruffled?"

"Very much so," she said. "But the question is: if I hadn't told you, would you have known?" This conversation was becoming strange, even for Tristan, but it took an outside observation to realize this. It was as if while he was talking to her, the roundabout answers and unspecific questions made sense.

He realized she was waiting for an answer. "I thought your question was rhetorical."

"Ah," Cerelinde sighed, tilting her head, "Is it rhetoric that asks a man to look within himself?"

"Or perhaps faith?" returned Tristan.

"Do you believe?" asked Cerelinde suddenly. The moment the words left her lips, he did not know of what she spoke, but the answer came easily.

"I believe in the land, the wind, and the senses."

And the moment he said it, he had no idea why. Tristan didn't like uncertainty – it killed people, made them careless. He had vowed to never be careless, so why was he standing in the clearing, talking to a mysterious almost-stranger?

"If you let me," she whispered, "I could be more than a stranger."

"Are you in the habit of looking in people's heads?"

"Everyone has a moment where their thoughts show on their faces," she replied, stepping away from him, towards the path that led back to the campsite. "You are not immune, Tristan."

She looked at him once more with those luminous green eyes, like those of the cat that haunted the pub back at Hadrian's Wall. There was knowing there that he didn't like. Then she turned her face away, and stepped onto the path. The strange horse, without being led, followed her, gently nuzzling her shoulder. She was stroking its nose as the strange pair disappeared from view.

Tristan stared at the moon, hidden between the treetops. "The land, the wind and the senses," he mused.

* * *

Cerelinde shook her head rapidly once she knew that Tristan could no longer see her. It was unusual, to be sure. Was she in the habit of making strange conversations? Her memory refused to answer, and yet . . .

Ah, but the strain of thought was lost, beneath the trap door. What would it take to open the rusted lock? She had found Faraday, and the Sotrarr'lun; she knew that there was a third thing, a third part of her being that she had yet to find. But she would find it.

The moon was setting once she made it back to the campsite. The knights, she knew, were already awake, and she patted Faraday twice on the nose to let her know that food was near. "I hope you're ready for a long ride, old friend," she said. "We are out of practice, you and I. That will have to change."

"You found a horse?" Guinevere appeared at her side. "And a bow?"

"Your father was keeping them for me," replied Cerelinde. "And I have a feeling that there is something missing."

"Like your memory?" asked Guinevere, holding her own bow with loosened fingers. She meant it as a joke, but Cerelinde considered it.

"No," she said softly. "I do not know if finding this missing part will even return my memory. But I feel its loss."

"I have the boy!" They exchanged looked and turned a corner at a fast pace. Marius was holding Lucan tightly, a small knife pressed against his throat. Fulcinia was pulling herself off the ground where she had been obviously thrown; Dagonet, face torn, had his knife raised against the mercenaries. "Kill him now!" Marius yelled, face purple with anger.

Guinevere and Cerelinde exchanged a single look, before both raised their bows. Cerelinde's arrow flew a second quicker than Guinevere, and Marius collapsed, dropping the knife held against Lucan's throat. The boy ran towards Dag, tears barely held in. Cerelinde heard others coming behind them, but she did not turn.

"Your hands seem to be better." Cerelinde and Guinevere ignored Lancelot, both drawing another arrow. In seconds, their arrows were burying themselves at the feet of the mercenaries, who drew back, anger and fright scrawled on their faces. Their wide eyes were focused on Cerelinde.

"Artorius!" bellowed Bors from behind them. "Do we have a problem?" Cerelinde raised an eyebrow, drawing another arrow, and the mercenaries almost cowered.

"You have a choice," said Arthur, his voice cold. "You help, or you die."

"I'd be happy," added Cerelinde, training her bow on the lead mercenary, "to help you to the afterlife." He shivered.

"Put down your weapons." He dropped his own sword, but his men did not comply. Cerelinde's cold eyes switched to the next man over, who still held his. Her lips pursed, and the lead mercenary spoke, fear tinting his words; "Do it, now!"

"I'm glad to help, Cerelinde," said Dag, his axe held ready. He was taller than her, bulkier as well, and yet the mercenaries were more terrified of the woman in green than they were of the Sarmatian. They dropped their weapons. Cerelinde smirked, and then casually lowered her bow, returning the arrow to her quiver.

"When," asked Bors casually as the other knights appeared, "did you get a bow and a horse?"

"Over night," replied Cerelinde. "Quite the arrows, aren't they?"

"Mm-hmm," agreed Gawain. "Not bird, are they?"

"No," smiled Cerelinde, suddenly remembering, "Actually, they're Icarii."

"Icarii?"

She laughed. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Try me."

"Winged men," she said, "from the mountains. Magical, it is said. I killed one, and stole his feathers. An arrow trimmed with Icarii feathers will always fly true."

"Flying men?"

For as much as they ridiculed it, the knights looked a bit stunned for a moment, obviously trying to swallow this. There was a ring of truth in her words that they couldn't ignore, despite their derision.

Cerelinde could finally hear the sounds of the Saxon drums. They weren't as loud as Bors' harsh breathing, but they slipped past her defenses and sped her heartbeat.

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

"And the horse?" managed Galahad. Cerelinde was shaken out of her reverie.

"Faraday," she replied. "An old friend." The horse snickered in agreement, flashing her mysterious eyes at the knights. "We have fought in many battles together, and will fight in many more." She gently ran her hand down the silky hair of Faraday's neck. "Goddess willing." The phrase, common enough that it was, came strangely off her tongue, as if she was unused to speaking it.

It was then Tristan chose to appear. His eyes barely flickered to Faraday and Cerelinde as he tossed a bow at Arthur's feet. "I killed four. Armor piercing. They're close; we have no time."

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

Arthur nodded. "You ride ahead." The knights complied, and as Guinevere watched, Cerelinde swung up on Faraday without saddle or bridle. She hung the bow diagonally across her chest and rode astride, her dress managing to flow elegantly. With a small nod to Guinevere, she and Faraday joined the knights.

"Where did you really find your horse and bow?" asked Gawain, and the others didn't bother to hide their curiosity.

"Merlin had them," replied Cerelinde, looking straight ahead at Tristan. "Apparently I asked him to watch them while I was in Marius' prison."

"But if you were captured . . ." said Gawain.

"It seems that I knew I would be taken by Marius' guards," she answered, Faraday shifting gently to avoid a tree branch.

"Know?" snorted Bors.

"I hardly have the memory to tell you why I believed that I would be capture," retorted Cerelinde, and she tilted her head back so she could look at the sky. Her hair shivered at the movement.

"Thank you," said Dag suddenly in the silence that followed.

"It was hardly something that requires gratitude," Cerelinde returned, tearing her gaze from the sky to the tall man to her left. "I've always wanted to kill the old bastard. Now I had a proper reason." She laughed throatily. "Not that I would have needed one."

The knights joined in her laugh, and Tristan's voice cut through the merriment.

"Do you permit her to enjoy killing?" Cerelinde knew without being told that it was directed at the young knight – Galahad. There was a pause, and a moment of tension-filled silence.

In it, over the racket of the rickety wagons and crunched snow, Cerelinde could hear the drums.

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

Saxons. She shivered, and felt a fear, more for her people than for herself.

And there it was again – she was referring to the people of Britain as her own. Why, why did she do this? But the answer was locked away in a place where she could not travel.

"Who are your gods?" asked Cerelinde suddenly. It was, as she had predicted, the right question to destroy the hostility and tension between the knights.

"Now, there's five of them," began Bors, but he was cut off by rowdy protests from the rest.

"Just one!"

"Two, you idiot!"

"Six!"

"Wait . . . it's four, isn't it?"

"We all have different faiths," Lancelot explained over the loud voices of the rest of the knights, with the possible exception of Tristan, "each with different gods."

"How . . . complicated," said Cerelinde, to numerous laughs.

"And what about you?" inquired Gawain, barely taking his eyes away from the path in front of them. "What do you believe in?"

"Belief is apart from knowing," replied Cerelinde.

"What?"

"I have no idea," she said, shaking her head lightly. "That came from nowhere." She shook her head again.

"So what do you . . . know?" countered Gawain.

"I believe in the Old Seven, ancient gods from this land. From a time before the Goddess, they come. Six brothers and their youngest sister – all said to be waiting until the time when they will once again be needed to save Britain from true death." It had a ring of a prophecy about it that unsettled her.

"Sounds depressing," muttered Galahad.

"To the contrary, it's inspiring. Britain can stumble about, tearing itself apart one way or another, but eventually . . . eventually it will all be saved, by entities so old that few remember their true names." She smiled. "Saved from true death by true names. Certainly _sounds_ like a prophecy to me." Silence settled again.

_Thrum.  
Thrum._

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

Ahead of them, around the bend in the trees, stretched an icy lake, mountainous hills lining the edges. Cerelinde could taste on the back of her tongue the blood that would be spilt here in the next few hours. Next few minutes, perhaps.

_Thrum._

_Thrum._

The pulsating beat of the drums grew louder as Faraday stopped without any direction from Cerelinde. The horse showed no signs of skittishness, which Lancelot's steed was beginning to betray, for all of its battle experience.

_THRUM._

_THRUM._

_THRUM._

_THRUM._

Blood.

* * *

BUM BUM BUM.

I promise that there'll be a fight next scene.  
Because we all know how much chemqueen LOVES her fights. Remember (if you read my bio) the mucho promised umbrella fight from the on-hiatus _Something Witchy Over the Hellmouth_?

Well, seeing as this was set in, like, 350, there aren't any umbrellas.

YOU GET THE PICTURE.

So, in order to receive my AM-ZING fight soon . . .

YOU MUST UPDATE.


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